My Brother's In Arms
by Celtic Spacey
Summary: The Lady Finduilas is dead; her son's grieve and her husband grows more distant than ever. War looms at the borders of Gondor, and in the midst of it all a family on the brink must stuggle to go on...
1. Prologue

**My Brothers In Arms**

For angel_death_dealer. Who demanded her promised baby Faramir story as my punishment for reading things I should not. I hope you're happy now, my duck, because my angst-y little ways have returned.

I understand that Finduilas is a Dúnadan, and therefore by Tolkien's descriptions the brother's should be similarly dark haired, my depictions are somewhat wrong. But it is not often I get to write of fox-haired children, and so I entertain the idea of the Faramir from the movies into my little sandbox.

Disclaimer: As par the course, the characters of note, of whom any recognise, belong to Tolkien in some form or another. Although other characters belong to themselves, despite my belief they are mine, they have too much life of their own for that to be truth.

Prologue

_She was on par with the princesses. By the age of five his mother, having filled his head with such fanatically beautiful tales of fantasy and fable, was to him one of the old princesses, her pale beauty and dark hair were never perfectly caught in the portraits of the House, but they served as a permanent reminder to him of his princess-like mother._

_ They served a better reminder than his own memory, which oft woke him, crying in the dark of the night, the image of his mother, paler than pale, dark hair limp and thin on her pillow, thin lips parted as she panted her final breaths, her silver eyes hidden as her hand slipped from his..._

The tightening of fingers around his hand drew him from his thoughts, and he tipped his head upwards, meeting the eyes of his brother. Boromir's own grey eyes swum with unshed tears, and again he squeezed at the tiny fingers trapped within his own, promising he was there for his brother. Faramir in turn took a slow breath – unheeding of the tears tracking down his face – and returned his gaze to the pyre. His mother lay within the flames, her ashes rising with the aid of the wind, and Faramir shuddered as he watched the shrouded form burn.

The lament was starting up behind him, rising to travel through the air to the silent watchers gathered to mourn, but he blocked it away, it mattered not anyway, he wanted his mother, who lay in the flames before him, he wanted his father...

He tipped his head again, not towards his brother, but to his father instead. The man stood as tall as ever, a single mark on his face evidence to his grieving, though he had forbidden even his children to cry. To Faramir he cut a terrifying sight, as tall and domineering as ever, swathed in black robes of mourning, and never once looking from the flames that were interning his late wife.

The clutch on his hand tightened again, and Faramir suddenly found himself swathed in the strong hold of Boromir's arms. He twisted into the safety, turning his head from his mother's body to bury his head in his brother's shoulder, and silent wept.

His tears led to exhaustion, and he slept, for the next thing he was aware of was Boromir setting him back onto his feet, clutching his shoulders as he swayed back from his dreams of his ailing mother, and long fingers wiped at the tears that still clung to his face.

"Ai, little fox, your cheeks are like frost!" he exclaimed, bundling the small child to his side again, for although the pyre had been high, they had stood a short distance from it, and the winter was settling in for the long haul, the encroaching air thick with the promise of the morning frosts. It had been pneumonia to finally take the ever weakening Finduilas from Middle Earth, and her youngest son who had ever stayed at her side whilst her husband ruled and her eldest fretted; it was understandable therefore that Boromir worried for the small imp that reminded him greatly of their mother, in constitution as much as in countenance, for her health had been waning within, if not prior to, the pregnancy of her youngest, and as such the child was often sickly

Faramir for his part made no reply, but turned his face back into his brother's shoulder, seeking his sibling's body heat and unknowingly avoiding their father's disapproving gaze.

"Faramir-" Denethor began, upset at the child's behaviour through the service, but silenced himself at Boromir's frown, as the elder boy clutched the small fox-haired head to his body and nodded his head towards his father.

"It grows cold out here, father," he stated carefully "And neither Faramir nor myself have eaten today in our grief, perhaps this conversation is better suited for the morn?" he allowed for no response, a daring act from a child of ten and only three years into his page service, but instead turned to sweep back into the familial rooms of the House, leaving Denethor to stand at his mourning post alone, and watch the ashes fly on the wind, as the attendants stood by and waited.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

Faramir shivered at his brothers side as Boromir led him down the corridor to their rooms. The corridors, running on the inside of the House, were dark and foreboding at the best of times, and more often than not Faramir would run through them, risking his father's wrath at such un-steward like behaviour than a moment too long in the dark, other times, like now, he would press close to the side of his brother, or his mother, in the knowledge that they would keep him safe.

Except, he thought with a frown, his mother no longer could do so. There would be no more hiding against his mothers skirts, clutching to the sweeps of cloth as she walked him through the corridors, she hadn't for a while now, but now something was different, he knew from the way Boromir bore his presence, his pressing heavily into his side, with a good grace he hadn't born in ages, and Faramir had never seen Boromir face up to their father like that.

His gaze drew to the dark, saw the stretching shadow of a guttered torch as the reaching arm of a creature, and shuddered.

"Almost there, Faramir," Boromir promised, releasing the five year olds hand to wrap his arm around the child. Whilst not as cold as the courtyard had been, the cold still settled on the flagstones they walked, and Faramir's clothes still held the cold as easily as it held the smoke from the pyre, and Faramir trembled within the folds.

They had stopped now, the five year of wrapped securely in the his brothers grasp, and Boromir reluctantly released the child from his grip, the door to his rooms was mere feet away, and taking the child's hand again he pulled Faramir the final distance, pushing open the door and immediately shifting to block the escape of the dogs that had awaited within.

"Come on, little fox," he said, extracting his hand from Faramir's to instead catch the collars of his animals. Wolf and Hunter were more pets than the hunting companions they bred to be, wolfhounds the pair; Bear had been a gift from his father on the day his page apprenticeship had started, whilst his sire had arrived on his retirement as Denethor's best hunting dog.

For a moment Faramir continued to shadow his brother, and then he skirted around the older boy to step into the rooms, allowing Boromir to push the dogs back and then close the door. He was immediately accosted by the pair of hounds that excitedly pushed up against him, and he gave each the attention they desired, scratching noses and ears alike.

"Oh Faramir," he sighed, as he glanced up to find his brother and found the child stood near the wall, seemingly smaller in his uncertainty, and even as Boromir watched the five year old sniffed and a tear escaped from the corner of one eyes and moved its way down his cheek.

"Come here," Boromir instructed, removing his attention from the dogs to reach his brothers side. The child was in his embrace as the dam broke and Faramir sobbed earnestly into his brothers robes, and only an moment after the still cold form had made contact with him did Boromir sweep Faramir up into his arms and carry him through his sitting room to his bedroom.

He settled Faramir against his pillows and pulled up the blankets to wrap around his brother, not chastising the dogs as they leapt up onto the bed; something that would be met with distinct disapproval from both his father and Faramir's nursemaid.

"Boromir-" Faramir started, clutching the blankets around himself, eyes wide as he took in the dogs shedding hair on the sheets.

"Hush now Faramir," he was instructed "You are still cold, and they are particularly useful on cold nights, in keeping warm. So you curl up with the hounds and I will get you one of my sleep shirts," by now he had crossed over to his bureau and was hunting out the aforementioned clothing article "And we shall get you out of those robes and I think we shall both pass the night here." His last got a sniff and a weak smile, for Faramir was prone to nightmares, and even more so since their mother had passed.

Boromir swallowed hard on that thought, banishing away his waiting tears and moved back over to the bed. The dogs had made short work of settling down upon the bed, and true to his word they had draped themselves over the child, covering his legs and apparently setting out themselves in warming the baby son of Denethor.

"Unbury yourself, little fox," Boromir said, tugging the covers from Faramir's shoulders and moving to the catches of his mourning robes. Such a small child should never wear such clothes, he thought, the ties that drew them closed were entirely unsuitable for such uncoordinated fingers.

When the ties were finally undrawn, and the dogs reluctantly urged to the end of the bed, Boromir handed Faramir the borrowed sleep shirt and allowed the child to change his outfit – for the younger child was just settling into a need for independence that would follow with the generally stubborn nature of the Steward and his kin – whilst he itself turned his attention to his own outfit and started to do battle against his own clothes.

"I have to wee, Boromir," Faramir whispered behind his brother, and there was the soft sound of naked feet hitting the flagstones beyond him before the child was scampering for the small commode adjoining the bedroom. An instant later there was a canine sigh from Hunter, and from the corner of his eye he saw the elderly dog follow the boy from the room.

Boromir shook his head at the soft giggle that reached his ears, Faramir clearly noticing his bathroom guard, and having finally wrestled off his clothes, he pulled on his own sleep shirt and turned to the bed. Restraining a smirk; Wolf had taken the distraction of the one brother and the absence of the other to creep up the bed and claim Faramir's recently vacated warm spot. Taking the hounds collar, he dragged it, huffing and sighing, back to the end of the bed, and straightened the blankets and sheets as Faramir and his chaperone returned.

"I have washed my hands," Faramir announced, stroking the flank of Hunter as he passed by the boy. Boromir watched the dog climb upon the bed – noting with satisfaction that he joined his son at the end of the bed – and urged Faramir to himself.

"Well done, little one," he praised, lifting the boy and stealing a cuddle. Thin little arms wrapped around his neck as Faramir reciprocated, and then Boromir gently deposited him onto the bed, noting that the boy had also cleared his face; the tear marks had been removed "Climb in under the sheets and stay warm little one, I will take care of my own ablations and then we shall go to sleep." He kept Faramir under a watchful eye until the boy had done as told before moving to the commode, and was diverted on his return at the knocking on his living room door.

"Wait here, little on," he urged, holding a hand out to tell the hounds likewise, ignoring the fact that only one obeyed, and moved with his dog to the door, opening it to meet his father.

"Your brother is not in his room," Denethor said on the appearance of his son, and Boromir, though looking for worry at that thought, saw only the loss of his mother in his fathers expression

"He is here with me, father," he said, and they shifted his wait to bar entry as Denethor made the move to cross into the room.

"Boromir," Denethor started "You have crossed me once tonight with your actions, I will let that pass, but do not continue thusly. Show me to Faramir."

"He is asleep," Boromir lied, "It has been a trying day, he is tired and cold. I wish him rest before he becomes ill himself." Fear rose in his chest at the words, and an image of his wasting mother flashed through his mind "Let him sleep, father, and I will bring him to visit tomorrow."

Denethor looked set to argue, and Boromir set his jaw, one hand poised against the wood of the door, and picking up on his masters mood Wolf rumbled out a short growl. Denethor glanced from owner to dog, and then shook his head, looking as stubbornly to his son as the boy was to him

"Mind me Boromir," he said lowly "And bring your brother with you to my study in the morning. At eight, Boromir. We will be speaking of matters then." He turned and swept away, leaving Boromir and a growling hound watching after him at the open door.

X

The man in black stood in the shadows and watched the house. For the last three hours he had done so, leant against the wall in the alleyway opposite, becoming slowly used to the smell of the space, and wondering more and more of the stupidity of these men. Since he had taken his position, and made himself as comfortable as possible leant against the stone walls in the stinking alleyway, he had watched some five or six men wander their way to the small house and enter. Although most had done so calmly, one or two had done so nervously that there would be no doubt in an observant watcher that something was afoot. Although the most observant of watchers would have taken issue anyway in the fact that so many men had entered such an unassuming house in such a short space of time without exiting.

Even as he stood there contemplating this, another man walked up the street, glancing either way as though to discover some watcher. The man in black rolled his eyes, though didn't shift his position as he watched the man's slow progress to the door, and waited as he went inside and the street again went quiet.

The minutes ticked by, and finally the man in black moved, stretching out limbs long held frozen in the shadows; he stepped from the alley and out into the street, eyes remaining on the house he'd been watching for the past three hours, though his ears were straining to catch a noise, to do what the others had and try to perceive if there was a watched other than himself.

Silence reigned; and finally satisfied he crossed the street, and entered the house.

There was a silence here too. But not as that of the empty street. Here the silence seemed sudden, the hush of people aware of a listener and therefore stopping mid-conversation, and he shook his head, drawing off the cloak he'd worn the day and throwing it over the back of a chair set in shadow beside the door.

Light flashed off his uncovered belt buckle as he moved from the dark hall and pushed open the first door a glint of light showed from the smallest gap.

There was a release of breath as he stepped into the lit study, and one of the men stepped forth, clasped the elbow of the man in black and then drew him forward, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a swift embrace.

"You should know better than to sneak around, brother," the man said, stepping back from the man in black, who merely shook his head in response.

"Sneak?" he echoed "How does one sneak when it is his own house he enters? Nay brother, it is you and your conspirators who sneak. You're more obvious than a hobbit in a pantry. Next time you wish to meet, do so in an inn."

"And have people over hear us?" one of the other men spoke out, and the man in black tilted his head to look at his, green eyes suddenly holding the coldest gaze possible

"The busiest inn you can find, Anárion," he stated, stepping across the room and dropping into the chair behind the desk, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a flask "No one will over hear you and those who do will forget once the drink starts flowing." A swift move saw him opening the flask and drinking deeply, though his eyes flashed from man to man, straying mostly to his brother, watching him shift nervously.

"Well?" he questioned, propping a foot up against the still open drawer "Your plan?"

"We start to put it into action tomorrow," his brother said "You each have your parts, you each know where you must be a week from now. Too long we have allowed the Stewards to rule, the Kingdom of Gondor must reign again. It is clear to us all that the line of Kings broke with Isildur, the Stewards wait for no-one, and forget their place as servants of the line with each branch of the line. The Kings line shall be reformed with the blood that still flows. The throne will again find itself in use and Gondor may again grow strong."

"If you are caught," the man in black said slowly "If any is caught, you are to say nothing of the rest of the plan. No one must know of it or those involves. You will die before you betray the reforging of the line. Forget not that this is what the Kingdom requires. And take down any who stand in your way." He said nothing else, and there was a minute of tense silence before the other men realised this was the signal of their dismissal and filed out. The man in black held up his hand to his brother, and the man shifted nervously as they waited in silence until finally the front door thumped close.

"Arassuil... Brother..." the man started

"Cirion, I mean not to get caught," the man in black said simply "You should try not to either. Our plans cannot fail but they will see no use if the ones charged with treason are the one setting out to take the throne."


End file.
